


Wake Me Up (Before You Come-Come)

by kaboomslang



Series: Somnambulovin' [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual Somnophilia, Local Married Couple Still Somehow In Honeymoon Phase, M/M, Mr Imwe I Do Believe You're Something Of A Cumslut, PWP, apologies yet again to my OFC, grody sweaty morning sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 13:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13705704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/pseuds/kaboomslang
Summary: All in all, there are worse ways to wake up. Actually, in Chirrut's humble opinion there aren't many better ways to wake up.





	Wake Me Up (Before You Come-Come)

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the previous fic in this series, some of the references might not make sense
> 
> The sequel is finally here, after gestating in my brain for months! It was finally ready to spurt free. Ew. Do you ever find yourself writing porn, and thinking, "wow, now everyone knows exactly what I'm all about." These are their stories. 
> 
> At least I finally get to use that title lmao
> 
> Thank you as ever to [greymichaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/profile) for checking it over ;u;

Chirrut is flying.

It is, naturally, a completely different sensation in comparison to the scant few times he has boarded transports to other worlds for a mission, or simply to cross the whispering oceans of Jedha itself. It’s different from the time Baze had guided him (laughing, shushing) aboard some clanking two-seater he had modified for Denic, and taken them for an illicit hurtle around the mesa. No, Chirrut is flying— _soaring,_ really, on the wings of the Force.

He assumes it’s the Force. Yes, there’s the same giddy swoop he feels in his stomach sometimes when he’s locked himself in meditation for days, when the barrier between the physical and the cosmic finally falls and he simply… soars. Funny, he doesn’t remember preparing for this one, fasting or training. Is he hungry? How long has he been under?

Light flares across the blurring mass of his perception and he squints. Or, he tries to. Instead he takes a nosedive, for now he can tell he really is airborne, yes, but plummeting. How silly of him not to realise he’s only flapping around the temple’s minarets. Baze is nearby, Chirrut muses as he falls, because why wouldn’t he be? Fetching breakfast too, thank the gods, though shouldn’t he really have hit the ground by—

_“—hurgh.”_

Pressure. Weight. Warmth, pressure, pressure, _pressure_ , Chirrut gasps as he awakes, pinned and burning.

“Shhh, hey. Chirrut, it’s me.”

Two gentle, calloused fingers slip through the pool of sweat collected in the hollow of his nape. The knuckles of his right hand are crunched painfully against the wall, under the flattened pillow, and everything smells of tallow and spice and faintly unwashed armpits. He is surrounded by heat, not unlike being in the salt pools miles beneath their bed, or perhaps a womb.

“I should,” he begins, but his voice is hoarse and muffled by the bedclothes. He turns his head until he can snatch a fathomless gasp of sweeter, cooler air. “I should _hope_ it’s you. I don’t let just anyone crush me to death in my sleep.” The snort is loud, right by his ear and he grins, groggy.

It’s when he shifts, ready to stretch and wriggle his way to coiling up Baze like a hungry vine around a tree trunk, that he becomes aware of the thick source of pressure keeping him immobile, pinned to the bed like a steak with a knife right through to the board below. He imagines his eyes widen far enough to fly a ship through. Oh yes, he might not be at his best in the mornings, but Chirrut knows intimately when there’s a damned cock inside of him. Well, one in particular.

“Baze.”

“Uh. Yes?”

He takes stock of himself. He isn’t used to doing that, here. There’s something addictively hedonistic to Chirrut about their space, their private room. He needs not check himself, limit himself, watch himself, he may sprawl and seep and tick all over every inch between their four walls and their bed and their bodies. No masters telling him to correct his form, as if he isn’t more advanced than half of them in the dojos, he gossips afterwards to Baze. No hazards to prod for with his staff, no— _nothing_ between his and Baze’s lives, their souls. He can simply be. This is new, though. The context, if not the physical sensation, is new. 

There have been mornings he has awoken to fingers, but never this, stuffed full to distraction. 

Baze is atop him, behind. Beads in his hair clink and brush against Chirrut’s shoulder blade, and he realises Baze is trembling with the effort of holding still. The heat… yes. Covered all over by a blanket of muscle and sinew, their bodies layered over one another like stacked cards. He is as flattened as their sad, single pillow, face down and spread open and stretched, his own cock rigid and trapped against the worn-soft sheet.

He hides his grin, rolling his face slowly back and forth in the stink of them both with his mouth open. The humidity and musk is almost a solid weight on his tongue, and a sudden flood of saliva soothes his sleep-coated throat.

“Baze,” he repeats. “Were you waiting for me to wake up?”

The great weight on him tilts a little as Baze leans further back. Chirrut knows he can hear the tease in his voice, the other, implied question: was he _not_ waiting? What he doesn’t anticipate is that consciously working up to something buried pleasantly into oneself, and being jolted awake by it, are two very different experiences. The movement drags Baze’s heft against Chirrut’s rim, still not completely caught up to the situation, and he chokes a little gasp into the pillow. Force, but if he doesn’t feel bigger sometimes! Baze’s hand flies to his scalding lower back and pets there, equal parts frantic and soothing.

“Sorry, sorry! I’ll—” He starts drawing away, and Chirrut is anything but ashamed of the way he takes action and shoves back as best he can, squashed as he is, impales himself to the hilt with a force that makes Baze hiss.

“Don’t be,” he pants. There’s no leverage, but, well. He never needs any with Baze. Sure enough, his husband gets the hint and lowers them back into their splay. “Mm, _fuck._ Didn’t I say you could do what you wanted?” He yawns. “Good morning, lovely.”

The shaky exhale against his shoulder sets him smiling like a wild thing, like a dancing parade lion, and he turns his head so Baze can see. Ancients take him, for who wouldn’t fall drunk with the power such sugary words have on this man, the sweetest man. All _Chirrut’s._

“Good morning, I hope.”

“I just said so!”

Baze laughs and ducks his head, brackets his elbows about Chirrut’s ears so the low sound buzzes across his whole back like an electric storm. He swears he feels his arm hair standing to as rapt attention as the rest of him.

He is being kissed. Small, drifting pecks across his jaw and cheekbone, light as snow and hot as coals. Baze breathes his private nickname, _chickadee,_ as their mouths meet softly. The angle is all wrong, but he has no room to twist and deepen it, so it’s as sweet and gentle as he imagines another couple’s wake-up kisses might be. Other couples, not they, not trained warriors so entwined that they fuck in their sleep. But far, far be it for Chirrut to judge anyone’s relationship. They’ve done it all backwards. The penetration before the kissing, that is, though the same can be said for the rest of it. In love before a courting word was even dreamed of.

In fairness, they have only been officially bonded for seventeen months, three weeks and five days, but as far as Chirrut is concerned, they have been married their entire lives. Or at least since they have known one another, which in Chirrut’s opinion is the same thing.

“How long have you been enjoying yourself without me this time, eh?” he murmurs when the kisses trail off into a simple, sealed sharing of breath. Too much of that and the exhaled fumes would kill them both, supposedly. It hasn’t happened yet.

Chirrut spreads his sluggish legs wider, just to relish the ragged hiccup in Baze’s breathing when he’s tugged a fraction deeper. “It can’t be long. You’d wake the dead with that thing,” he teases, grinding back. The thrill is undeniable, waking to find his entire lower half heavy and sensitive and accommodating, knowing Baze would be good to him even while he slept. Baze doesn’t have it in him to be anything but, when it comes to Chirrut. Sometimes the luck of the universe makes him want to cry, until he remembers it isn't luck, if such a thing even exists. If any two things were destined, it is he and Baze.

“Not long. You didn’t take much persuading,” Baze sighs, nose snubbing into the give of Chirrut’s cheek. “Because you’re a harlot.”

Ah, but of course. Last night’s exertions had left him full to brim, batting away Baze’s offer of a clean cloth between his legs. “If enjoying the reminders of a good lay makes me a harlot, I’m obviously in the wrong profession,” he says. Baze quakes with silent laughter.

“I wasn’t casting judgement. You know I think it’s—nice. That you enjoy that.”

“Nice?” Chirrut’s cheeks are starting to ache from smiling. All is as the Force wills it.

The reply is gruff, and Chirrut coos at the summery heat of an embarrassed face, pressed close. “Appealing. Devastating. Overwhelming, take your pick.”

“I get you excited, don’t I?” Reaching back, he winds a stray curl of Baze’s hair around his finger until it’s taut. Then tugs. Baze’s hips kick forward like he’s a puppet on a string, buries himself so hard in Chirrut that his stomach lurches with heat as he’s knocked an inch or three up the bed, filled and spilling over with Baze, like displacing water from an overflowing bath.

Baze hisses a curse and gathers himself like a thundercloud, back to his knees, pulling carefully at Chirrut’s hips. Chirrut goes easily, though he doesn’t help. He merely flops where Baze tugs him, limp as a ragdoll. He didn’t start this.

“How’s that?” Baze asks, when he’s finished. Chirrut can feel the tops of Baze’s hairy thighs brush the unders of his own smoother ones. He shifts thoughtfully, arching his spine and sitting back into the cradle of Baze’s hips. His cock has no friction this way, but the twin bright points of his nipples dragging against the sheet, and the pulsing stretch of his body around Baze is more than enough. His nerve endings are scorched bare already.

He decides he can’t be blamed for wanting to draw out the beautiful ache behind his balls for as long as possible. Besides, this private display of happy petulance always riles Baze up to NaJedha and back.

“Why ask me? You must have had plans while I was sleeping, see them through.” He rocks back and forth, back and forth for emphasis, barely moving while he talks. “I’m _yours_ to _do_ with what you _will._ Do you ask ‘how’s that?’ when I’m unconscious?”

Baze is alternately smoothing down his flanks and gripping at the lean handholds of his hips tight enough to bruise. Oh, he hopes they will. Let them all see he isn’t some mystic, belonging to the Force and the Force alone. He is Chirrut Îmwe; let the Force use him as a weapon, but let the stuffy old elders know that he is blood and bone and these are the only bruises that matter. These are the only kind anyone can land on him, so they’ll know where they came from.

Baze is leaning on him harder now, and Chirrut hisses his approval. “By the way, it’s rich that _I’m_ the harlot when you’re the one who can’t stay away from my ass for twelve bells. O-oh hell—”

The pillow’s cotton squeaks where he clutches it, knuckles straining. Baze has widened his kneel and leant forward on his wrists, above Chirrut, behind, everywhere. A splash of something hits Chirrut’s exposed back and he jumps, moaning as the movement drags the fat pressure of Baze’s cockhead against his insides. He’s being sweat upon. The air tastes of slick sex, like dragging his fingers through raw, silky wool.

“Don’t act like you don’t,” a slow thrust, “love knowing I was fucking you while you slept.” A quick and punchy roll of strong core muscles against his body, and Chirrut cries out, grips shakily at Baze’s hand. They pause and breathe, and he recovers well enough to shank a grin back over his shoulder.

“You like it when I’m sleeping because I don’t talk back, don’t you?” Baze is stiff as a practice dummy for a moment, and Chirrut can’t help from cracking up. It breaks the spell, and Baze collapses over him with a few husky guffaws while Chirrut cackles to himself.

His legs are bowed wide as a frog’s like this, though Baze’s quiet, continuous fucking makes up for the barely-there ache in his flexors. Like Chirrut couldn’t perfect all eleven hundred forms whilst doing the splits, regardless. “Gods, I love you,” Baze groans behind his ear. Chirrut squirms back onto his cock in delight, humps into the damp, crushed space, chasing friction.

“Even when I talk back?” He’s just speaking for speaking’s sake, now, Baze saying such things irrevocably turns his mind to putty. One day, when they are older and harder, it will be easier to withstand such love. He hopes. He dreads.

“ _Fuck_ yes, especially then—yeah. Shameless little—hn,” Baze slurs against the back of Chirrut’s neck.

He bows his head to the pillow and shuts his eyes, not that it makes a difference, but he wants to be lost in sensation, like when he slips into dreams or a Force trance. This engenders equal reverence. Chirrut feels tongue first, lapping like a loth-cat against the grain of his sweat-soaked hair, as if he’s the last few drops of water in the desert. It’s been months since he first invited Baze to take what was always offered, always potentially his to claim. He needs his head shaved again.

Tight heat spirals through him when Baze bites the muscles in his arm, worries at it, and he feels another welling blurt of precome soak into the sheet. His shaft drags through it, unfortunately clashing with a hard twist from Baze at that sweet spot inside. His heart thunders, then the heat snaps coils around his lower belly and he comes and comes on a long, drawn out whine, messing the bed further.

Without the pillowing blanket of oncoming orgasm to distract, everything is sharper. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; after all, it is really only in sex that he allows himself dampened, to hold Baze as his circuit breaker against the world. However, Baze happens to still be fucking him, harder now, spurred by the sight and sound of his own bursting release.

This is absolutely not a bad thing. He’ll follow the Force internally some time, analyse why it feels so horribly, threateningly good to have Baze use him for release whenever he needs it. Baze would of course balk at ever framing it in such a base way, but Chirrut loves base, _needs_ base. All his life he is whispered about, shied from, observed as the sensitive, the seer, the top fighter, the temple’s greatest hopes and dreams made manifest. By all but Baze. Baze who loved him before his first vision, who loved him ten years ago when he was a scrawny child who didn’t understand his own wet dreams, who loved him, who loved him, who _loves him_ —

He’s still gasping through his own aftershocks, hips jerking uncontrollably, desperately forcing Baze’s length against his prostate one last time. He finds it and sobs, buries his face in the pillow and yells from the cramp in his abs. Baze hushes and fucks him through the last of it, one hand clamped around his thigh and the other scritching blunt nails across his scalp. It is heavenly, and Chirrut goes boneless, slumps to the wet sheets like snow falling from a tree branch.

“Was that good?” Baze mumbles, massaging at the sweat-dewed valley of Chirrut’s spine.

He tries to reply but his voice is a high warble even to himself, so he settles for a heartfelt thumbs up, and Baze snorts fondly. There is still a heavy ridge of pressure that throbs hotly inside of him, a metronomic reminder of Baze’s need.

“You did that without... touching yourself,” Baze continues. He sounds exceptionally short of breath, and Chirrut grins tiredly. He’s going to need more sleep after this.

He manages to croak, “Yes, love. Your dick did that all by itself.” He pushes himself up on all fours, away from the wet patch, his spent cock hanging damp and satisfied between his thighs. By the prayer call just starting, they have missed breakfast. Chirrut’s stomach growls. They certainly know how to enjoy their bare few duty-free days off together. “Now get back to it. We might still make it to lunch.”

It doesn’t take sight to know Baze is rolling his eyes, but Chirrut flashes a smirk back at him anyway and circles his hips until they’re seated together once again. He braces his forehead against his arms and settles in for a good, thorough bout of it.

Chirrut enjoys it this way the most, the way that shows him Baze knows his own strength, knows it is not inconsiderable, and knows precisely how well Chirrut can take it. It isn’t long before he’s raw despite Baze stopping for more oil, oversensitised and feverish with the knowledge that not even _he_ will be able to conceal the effect of this fuck on his gait. And all through the pounding rhythm Baze is tender, holding him up, kissing open-mouthed at his ears, the top of his spine, the sour hollows of his underarms. When he grazes over the prostate there is a phantom jolt of achy goodness, a cruel tease that Chirrut’s unable to put to better use, so he just screws his face up to withstand it easier, keens loudly through it and basks in the animal pleasure of being filled and haltingly praised by the one he loves.

When they are this close, locked and sealed together with sweat and declarations, it would be impossible for anyone, _anyone_ to split them apart. Perhaps that’s why Chirrut enjoys it so much. Blasphemy, some might speculate, but Chirrut has never claimed to follow the codes of faith as closely as Baze does. The Force’s raw power is enough. Love is enough.

Baze’s strokes are slowing, which means he’s close, he comes best like this when it’s wrung out from him. Chirrut fumbles back for a hand and brings it to press hard against the toned flex of his lower belly, sliding through the slick residue still caught in Chirrut’s navel.

“Feel,” he gasps, and Baze whimpers into his shoulder, shoving himself forward, inward, as deep as he can, and he is so well proportioned that Chirrut imagines he really can feel the bulge of him pressing from the outside. “Feel you come,” and oh, he’s slipped into the mountainspeak, but at least the only vocabulary Baze is familiar with is sex-talk. “To my heart.”

“You feel—so fucking—”

Baze spills into him, hot and copious and with his hair draped in thick snarls around the back of Chirrut’s neck, their knuckles squeezed together until it hurts, and his hips shuddering to bury the last drops with the rest of it from the night previous. Chirrut clenches his teeth and clenches his hole around Baze, thinks dreamily that maybe he can taste him in the back of his throat.

A few wheezing minutes afterwards, Chirrut feels a scratchy, unshaven kiss brush the side of his neck, and they both topple to their respective sides of the narrow bedroll. He grits his teeth as Baze slips free of the tight clutch of him, but physical gain is not without its discomforts. As guardians, they know this well.

He stretches his legs out finally, brings his knees to touch his nose and tangles them back in Baze’s, grunting with satisfaction. Already his backside aches something terrible, but Baze’s spend is beginning to dribble out and down to the sheets. He luxuriates, and thinks amused thoughts about Uqin finding them like _this_. She really was a hoot sometimes.

“ _Shit,_ ” Baze says impassionedly, still gasping. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve—that was. Wow.”

Chirrut beams at him, his tongue-tied beloved, awkward and gangly inside and somehow unaware that half of Jedha would kill to be in Chirrut’s place. Chirrut will kill them first, if it came to that. He raises a weary palm and waits, chuckling when Baze smacks it with triumphant finality. “Come here,” Baze mutters, bundling Chirrut close and yawning right in his face.

They kiss for an age, catching and licking at each other’s mouths, hands in hair and grasping greedy armfuls of anything they can reach. Why, Chirrut wonders at times like this, did the Whills of old not deign to make sex a critical part of a guardian’s official training. He and Baze would be top of that class, too.

Eventually the need for air is pressing, and they quiet themselves into a lull. The smell of their coupling is as oppressive as a sandstorm and twice as dense, so Chirrut breathes through his mouth and listens as the lunch gong comes and goes.

Baze sighs at the sound, a little forlorn. “Your fault,” Chirrut informs him tartly, elbowing him in the ribs.

There’s a rustle, and the breeze from the empty hall beyond their curtain is blocked as Baze turns to face him. “I don’t _prefer_ you when you’re asleep, you know.”

Chirrut blinks. “I know?” He cups Baze’s bristly jaw, swipes the pad of his thumb back and forth across the lower lip.

“You are nothing to be _avoided,_ ” Baze stresses. “I love you talking back. When you sleep you just look so—you’re so—”

“Baze Malbus,” Chirrut tuts with mock gravity. His husband is lucky Chirrut treasures reassuring him so much. He hoards the opportunities to make Baze feel better, to repay every smidgen of kindness the other man has offered him over the years. No, Baze isn’t lucky; he is deserving. “You cannot be telling me a guardian of your stature simply can’t control himself around a pretty face.”

“What makes you think you’re pretty,” Baze shoots back flatly, and Chirrut brays with laughter. His heart pounds happily, the beat of blood echoed in his smarting muscles, his abused groin throbbing.

“You’re such a fool,” he says, shivering at Baze’s hand on his waist. Where has his shirt gone? Did he even wake up in it? No matter, he’ll wipe himself down with it and wear it tonight, just to hear Baze’s faux-retches. “I know it helps you, having me when you can’t sleep.”

“Mm. I haven’t dreamed in months.” Chirrut’s sunny mood darkens slightly at the mention. Baze has exhibited rudimentary Force sensitivity, and his description of the dream-vision haunting his nightmares was more alarming than Chirrut had let on. Then, he could be letting his imagination run away with him. Chirrut is mature enough to know he tends towards the practice, thank you.

“Good,” he settles upon. No use tainting a perfect morning. “I think—”

“Oh _kriff, GUYS_ —”

He startles as Baze shoots up, and falls from their pallet in surprise, Uqin’s shouting already receding down the hall. “Keep your fucking _commlink_ on, Baze, even on your day off! I couldn’t find either of—ugh, you’re both _banished!”_

“You could knock!” Baze hollers after her, from their floor. Chirrut heaves himself from the bed, still laughing and naked and with Baze’s leavings streaked down his thighs. He hops nimbly over his husband. “Where are you going?”

Chirrut grabs his staff. “Lunch is over. I’m going to blackmail her into getting us something to eat,” he says proudly, and hares away, Baze’s yelling spread behind him like a slipstream. It’s alright. Baze loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> i love my messy temple frat boys


End file.
